Silence
by rewrittengirl
Summary: They say silence is healing... Drabble, Watson angst.


**AN: Hey all! Just a quick little author's note, no need for a huge story header. So this is an in character sample I did for this roleplay site that I'm on, and I just applied as John, and hope to be accepted soon. I was going to be Sherlock, as those who read Written in the Stars know, but since everyone's been telling me how good at John I am, that I decided to switch. Sorry for the long wait on chapter 10 of WitS (if you're one of its readers), but I've hit a sort of road block, even though I've got pretty much the rest of the story and a bit of dialogue on the side planned out. Stupid sentence I can't figure out, blocking me from finishing the damn chapter. *mutters and grumbles* I will soon though, because this little prompted drabble (the prompt was "silence is healing." duh. XD) totes gave me tons of muse. And since I finished my John app, I have all the time in the world! **

**If you guys want to read the app, go to: http:/(foward slash)rewrittencity(period)proboards(period)?action=display&board=reg&thread=4928&page=1 without the period and foward slash replacements. Check out the site while your at it, its probably the best roleplaying site on the web, in my opinion. I must warn you, its for intermediate to advanced RPers, if you think about joining. Very long and grueling application if its your first time and such. If you like to RP though, its definitely an amazing place. And the site doesn't have a Sherlock, so maybe if, you know, might happen to play Sherlock well (AssassinofRome, I'm looking at you!), in a modernized setting, maybe you might join for me? *puppy dog eyes***

**Okay, shameless promoting of my favorite website over now. Enjoy the fic! Its just a little drabble.**

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><p>They say silence is healing.<p>

Who "they" are, John didn't know. Probably some higher up in the food chain that thought of supposedly deep philosophical phrases and coined them as provocative, but nevertheless. The saying was probably true.

It felt true. The water helped a bit too. So did cold sides of the bathtub, air bubbles rippling up to the surface as he stared at the ceiling from underwater. It was quite peaceful. All he had to do was think about holding his breath. All other thoughts flew out the window... or rather out of the tub.

With a little bit of luck, he could stay under forever. Ah, but alas, a breath he had to take. He gasped and sputtered when his lips and nose hit the surface, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes. He took a deep breath, and the thoughts came back. Damn water. Why couldn't he breathe for long under it? Why haven't humans evolved and formed gills?

Though he supposed with gills the thoughts still would enter his head, and focusing on not breathing was his only option. The thoughts were usually everywhere when he was alone, which was most of the time. He had no friends to speak of, no family, no job, no home even. Just this hotel suite, and this tub to keep him company.

And his thoughts of course.

Bang bang! the shot rang out in his head. He felt it whiz past his ear like an arrow head, approaching its red target just behind him. But that was only a memory, the distant sound of his heart drumming a mere out of body experience.

The water was cold now. He didn't mind. It was comforting to know that the water understood, the water calmed him. It didn't have to try, didn't have to force its condolences and pity on him, like so many other people did. _"Would you like a chair, Dr. Watson?" "You were so very brave, Dr. Watson." "Serves you right for going in the military like that, Dr. Watson."_Or something like that.

He rubbed his head, his hair dripping water over his forehead. He sat in defeat, cold and naked in the bathtub. He could see through the water where his scar was on his leg. It was a small little thing. Who knew something so tiny could cause so much damage? Would he ever walk normally again?

Oh, who was he kidding, of course he would. He's walked and even ran perfectly fine since returning from the war. His conscious mind, however, always has other plans for him. He suspected post-traumatic stress, but he really hadn't been exposed to much trauma. If there was any trauma at all, it was from being torn away from the fight so quickly and easily. His discharge had been out of his control. Damn illness. Damn wounds. Damn state of mental health.

He rubbed his hands and sighed. Depression now? He must be going through a lot of phases. Would he be bipolar next? Would he develop a separate personality, like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde? It wouldn't surprise him much. He found nothing surprised him much anymore, though he was always open for it. Didn't happen though, and he doubted anything in his life would change now, except maybe he'd find a job and house, maybe he'd meet a girl, marry her, have a couple kids, retire at 65 like all the other men around here.

That may seem like a lot of change to people, but for John, his feelings would always stay the same, static and unmoving. He wished to see things in technicolor, like he used to before he was wounded. Now life was a black and white film, reflecting in the glass of the mirror. Everything was in reverse, everything was crumbling with nitric erosion. The film was fading, and soon all that would be left would be memories. What kind of life was that?

It wasn't a life at all. It was a machine.

Damn thoughts. He sank back into the water again, just after taking a big breath of hopeless air, slowly rising to the surface.


End file.
